


Lesson Learned

by airspaniel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Handcuffs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-29
Updated: 2010-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-13 10:57:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The critical difference between <i>you're</i> and <i>your</i>, explained in a persuasive and memorable way by Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lesson Learned

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://zekejojo.livejournal.com/profile)[**zekejojo**](http://zekejojo.livejournal.com/), because it's her fault anyway. I'm not sure I got enough grammar in my grammar porn, but there you go. Comments/crit always welcome!

It starts with a text message, sent from one slightly inebriated G. Lestrade to Sherlock Holmes at approximately eleven o’clock on a Saturday night:

 _your needed. urgently_

 

Which garners the response:

 _My needed what?_

SH

 

And the response to that response:

 _v funny. you know what I mean. come on._

 

Which does not get a response in text form; but twenty minutes later Lestrade finds himself flat on his back on his bed, his clothes missing; hands twisted up over his head and bound to the headboard with his own handcuffs, and with a stern-looking lapful of fully-clothed consulting detective.

“I realise that texting is an informal medium,” Sherlock tells him. “But it is no excuse for being unforgivably sloppy.” His professorial tone is at odds with the way he runs his fingertips down the center of Lestrade’s chest, light and almost affectionate. “You do understand the difference between the homophones _your_ and _you’re_ , don’t you?”

“If I say no, I suppose you’re going to teach me,” Lestrade replies, just going with it. Following Sherlock’s lead usually gets results. “Going to discipline me if I get it wrong?”

Sherlock doesn’t rise to the bait, keeps trailing his fingers slowly downward, a ticklish touch over Lestrade’s stomach and he sucks it in reflexively. Sherlock laughs softly.

“Hardly,” he says, hand still drifting lower. “Positive reinforcement is far more effective at creating a lasting impression. And I do so want the lesson to stick.”

“Positive reinforcement,” Lestrade repeats, one eyebrow raised curiously. “And how… _oh._ Oh, _fuck_.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock smirks, and twists his wrist. “Are you ready?”

Lestrade lifts his head and does his best to keep his hips still. “I assure you, you have my undivided attention.”

“Good. Now, the word you intended to use is _you’re_ ; a combination of the words _you are_.” He slides his palm over the head of Lestrade’s cock, spreading the slickness there over his hand as he grasps it in his fist once more, seemingly taking _no notice of all_ of the strangled noise that Lestrade can’t help making. He continues, as level as ever. “The letter A is replaced by an apostrophe, and the two words are elided into one. This is called a contraction.” He tightens his grip momentarily, punctuating the sentence.

“Ngh,” says Lestrade in response, and Sherlock seems to be waiting for something a little more coherent, stilling his strokes until Lestrade almost wants to beg for it. “Contraction… yes,” he manages, teeth gritting, and thank god it’s good enough. Sherlock does the wrist thing again, like a reward.

“Very good,” he says, leaning forward on his unoccupied hand, planted next to Lestrade’s shoulder. It’s a very feline movement, and it looks very good on him, and Lestrade wishes he wasn’t locked up, because he wants very much to flip Sherlock to his back and put his hands all over him. _Inside_ him, oh _god_ , he wants that.

But Sherlock, damn him, just keeps lecturing. “The word you used, y-o-u-r, is a form of the possessive case of _you_ , used as an attributive adjective.” He turns his face into the curve of Lestrade’s neck, rumbles his low velvet voice right into Lestrade’s ear. “Possessive,” he repeats. “As in _your handcuffs_.”

“My… _fuck_ , Sherlock, I _get_ it, all right? Just, please…”

Sherlock shows a modicum of mercy, quickening his hand, tight and wet and _glorious_ , but then proves what an utter bastard he truly is by demanding, “Tell me what you’ve learned.”

“You’re _joking_ ,” Lestrade chokes out, because how the hell is he supposed to _speak English_ when Sherlock’s hand is doing that, and _that_ , Christ…

“I could stop,” Sherlock suggests, like it makes no difference to him either way, and Lestrade could kill him, he really could.

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ ,” he orders, though it comes out sounding more like a plea than anything. “I know how - _ah!_ I… I promise I will _always_ use proper punctuation and… and grammar and _don’t stop_ , you bastard, _please_ …” He’s babbling and he doesn’t care, lets the words fall out with his harsh breath as he fucks Sherlock’s fist, hips snapping up and up and he’s so fucking close that he’s _there_ , making an utter mess of Sherlock’s hand, his own stomach, his _chest, fuck…_

Much later, it seems, when he can sort of breathe again, his throat sore and rough, and his arms aching from the strain they’ve been under, he registers that Sherlock has slipped away; is standing nonchalantly beside the bed instead of being on it and getting naked, as Lestrade firmly believes he should be.

“I think we’ll leave your capitalisation for another time,” Sherlock says, adjusting his shirt cuffs under his coat sleeves, straightening his lapels. “Wouldn’t want you to be overwhelmed with too much information.”

He drops something on Lestrade’s chest, right under the hollow of his throat, cool and heavy for how small it is; and it takes Lestrade longer than it should to realise that it’s his handcuff key.

 _He wouldn’t._

“Sherlock, unlock me this instant,” he growls, but the man is already gone. Fucking hell…

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

Lestrade consoles himself with thoughts of violent revenge, and sets about trying to pick the key up with his teeth.


End file.
